


𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐁𝐘𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐄|★

by raquelsss



Category: Columbine - Fandom, Dylan Klebold - Fandom
Genre: 1999, Biographical, Columbine, Drama, Dylan Klebold - Freeform, F/M, High School, mental health
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27518524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raquelsss/pseuds/raquelsss
Summary: Dylan experiences a downward spiral.This book contains mature themes, drug content throughout, brief sexual material, and strong language. Viewer discretion is advised.
Relationships: Dylan Klebold/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. 𝙧.𝙞.𝙥. 𝙩𝙤 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙤𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨

**Author's Note:**

> 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫: Some names and identifying details have been changed. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. This book is not intended to be hateful or in support of the real-life events. The author does not and will never condone the actions of the real perpetrators.

━━━━━━━━  
April 1999

The trees looked like they were swimming, growing hazier by the second against the warm sky. Kicked up winds blew back the pine needles of the surrounding Ponderosa trees and gave off an eerie rustle, frightening a family of mourning doves from their nest. That's the last thing Dylan remembered hearing before he sank to the grass, the soft coo of the dove's song ringing in his ears. He gazed up at the setting sun, the clouds bursting with contrasting shades of brilliant yellow, orange, coral, and violet. He became attracted to a particular cloud, one that was shaped like a hand or a claw, he decided. He watched it float as the sky grew darker by the minute, the steady breeze billowing past his body as he lay there, seemingly lost.

But he was anything but lost. He'd hiked this trail with his father millions upon millions of times. It was his escape, his getaway from the lights of the city, the bustle of the suburbs. He felt comfortably hidden, nestled away deeply in the gorge, totally engrossed in the foothills and the canyons that lay betwixt his hometown and the park. It was an easy hike, too, but nonetheless long in distance. One that his father was able to handle until his more recent surgeries. After a full two hours of wandering, Dylan had made it to the other side of the loop, having passed by several hikers, some with large dogs on leashes.

The spring colors of early April threatened to break through past the remnants of winter. His swift hideaway from civilization brought Dylan to a lonely valley, embellished with rock formations and a few abandoned wooden picnic tables. He recalled hiking here in earlier years, celebrating elementary school birthday parties at these very same picnic tables. In middle school, there had been mountain bike racing through this valley and later horseback riding when relatives came to visit.

The mild hills and the occasional rock climbs held a special place in his heart, from childhood to now. No, he was not lost. From where he lay now, it was a 30-minute walk back to Plymouth Creek and the trail was clearly marked, though he knew the way blindfolded. When he was younger, his fear of rattlesnakes made him wary of climbing the rocks or riding his bike along the gravel, but not so much anymore. It wasn't that his fear had gone away, but more like he simply didn't care.

As he lay there, eyelids heavy, the rocks began to swim alongside the trees, followed by the clouds and the birds. Soon the entire world was melting together in a puddle of colors hurdling toward him like a vortex, and he closed his eyes in surrender, accepting the earth's encapsulation of his soul.

"I'm sure he's fine, Susan," Dylan's 52-year-old father mumbled from the passenger seat as his wife increased her grip on the steering wheel. He ran a shaky hand through his salt and pepper hair, gazing out the passenger side window with tired blue eyes.

"Oh, he's fine, I'm sure," Sue replied with a sharp edge to her voice, her eyes glued to the road. "I am not fine. I'm panicking, Tom. Are you fine?"

"Sue, he wouldn't—"

"Just stop, just..." Her voice softened as she pressed down harder on the accelerator. "Just stop, just stop, please."

Her husband clicked his seat belt into place as she turned down a dark and winding path off Deer Creek Canyon Road. 20-year-old Byron sat uncomfortably in the back-middle seat without a safety belt, anxiously leaning forward to see out the windshield despite how cramped his long legs were in his mother's black Honda Civic.

As the car turned into the parking lot of Bluffs Regional Park, the headlights met a frightened family of deer who scampered off into the darkness beyond the beam of artificial light. As the two emerged from the car, Byron staying behind, Tom flicked on the flashlight he'd found in the garage, which proved ultimately useless against the quickly darkening sky. It didn't brighten anything past two feet.

"How do you know he's out here?" Tom asked as his wife took the flashlight from his hands and began charging ahead onto the trail loop.

"I think he comes here a lot," she replied, not bothering to turn around. The woman looked years younger than 50, jogging up the uneven trail without falter or lack of stamina. She waved the flashlight around frantically as Tom struggled to catch up to her, favoring his right knee.

Just then the halo of light caught a glimpse of a hand on one of the picnic tables. An left hand, palm up, fingers bending rhythmically. She brought the flashlight back, illuminating the lanky outline of her youngest boy sprawled out on the table, gazing up at the sky.

"Dylan," she whispered, followed by a sigh as she drifted closer to her son. He was laughing, a muffled and careless laugh, his eyes closed.

"Dylan." Sue drew closer to her boy, bending down once she reached him. "Dylan," she repeated a little louder, firmness to her voice. She bent the flashlight toward his face as he squinted at the brightness, a dazed but easy smile on his face. Her breath caught in the back of her throat when she realized he had been crying, the stained tear trails along his cheeks shimmering under the flashlight's beam.

"Mom," he greeted her before closing his eyes again, his giddy chuckling persistent, like a five-year-old who'd been caught coloring on the walls. Something was not right.

Sue lifted the light, so it was off his face. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. "Come on," she said gently, her voice devoid of the sternness it held before. There were a lot of things she wanted to say in that moment, but she resigned herself to a deep breath. Steadily, she reached out her hand for him to take as he opened his bloodshot eyes again with another senseless string of laughter.

"Come on, let's go home," she said, keeping her demeanor calm as Dylan took her hand and she fought to pull him up. Dylan staggered to his feet, swaying considerably, and Tom grabbed his arm to steady him as they walked back to the car.

Tom nudged Dylan into the backseat where Byron had scooted over, helping his brother strap in. After their parents followed, Tom looked back at Dylan who had his head against the window, his fingers resting against the door handle.

"Did you lock the doors?" Tom asked Sue who looked back and quickly switched on the child-proof locks in the back.

Dylan heard the swift click of the door lock, sighed dramatically, and began tracing designs on the window with his index finger. He turned his head slightly and seemed to notice Byron for the first time. With a glower, he spat in annoyance, "What are you doing here? It's not Christmas."

"Settle down," Tom said from the front as the car sped off.

The house tucked into the foothills was still and quiet an hour later. Sue stood in the kitchen, making herself and Tom a cup of tea, her hand uneasily shaking as she poured the contents from the kettle. Trying to calm herself, she dropped a tablet of Tylenol in her own to help with a headache, placing the orange pill bottle onto the countertop. She carried both mugs to the table where Tom and Byron sat in silence, staring out the darkened window.

"Are you sure you don't want anything?" She asked Byron.

"No thanks," he replied, his voice quieter than the upbeat tone he usually had.

The upstairs bathroom door closed, breaking the silence in the house, and Dylan could be heard clunking down the stairs. He appeared moments later in the kitchen entryway, shaggy hair freshly washed, wearing a clean pair of pajama pants and a Colorado Rockies sweatshirt. It wasn't clear if he'd sobered up.

"Dad, I know I messed up," Dylan said, his words slightly slurred, as he quickly shuffled over to where his father sat, giving the man a half-hearted shoulder pat before sitting down next to him. "That's the last time I'll ever drink, I promise."

Tom sighed, awkwardly squeezing Dylan's hand and looking away. Sue rested her back against the countertop, catching her husband's gaze for a moment and then glancing at the floor as she paced.

"Look, kiddo, we were worried about you. You scared us a little," Tom said in a much calmer voice than expected as he put a hand on Dylan's shoulder. "I just don't understand what you thought you were accomplishing with such an exercise."

Sue set down her coffee cup. "Who knows what could've happened? You didn't tell us where you would be. And then we find you alone and intoxicated on a trail."

Byron stared down at the placemat. Tom raised a hand to ease her rising anger, though it did little to help. "Sue."

"It's like we don't even know you anymore. What if a park ranger had found you instead? You just got off diversion and now you're a minor caught with alcohol. How would that look? You can't keep making these bad decisions, Dylan, these poor judgments," Sue said, coming around the other side of the counter, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

Dylan slowly stood from his chair, the legs scraping back against the wood. "I know, and I'm sorry. It was just one drink, Mom," Dylan said, knowing full well it had been more than one. "How come when I mess up it's a big deal, but when he does, nothing happens?" He turned to stare at his brother, his blue eyes darkening with accusation. "You don't even know half the things he's done."

Byron lifted his gaze to his younger brother in stunned silence, looking confused and panicked all at the same time. "Dylan, I—"

"You want me to tell her?" Dylan gave an exhausted laugh and turned back to his droopy eyes to meet his mother's alarmed ones. "You think I'm the one you don't know?"

Sue looked from Dylan to Byron and back to Dylan. "What? What are you talking about? What else don't I know?"

"Okay, one problem at a time," Tom said in a desperate attempt to keep order before all hell broke loose.

"Tom, please!" Sue snapped placing her hands on the sides of her head.

Her husband closed his mouth, taking off his Einstein-like glasses and rubbing his hands over his face. "Byron, what is he talking about? Did you give him the alcohol, son?"

Byron sighed, rolling his eyes angrily. "Of course, automatically it's all my fault, right? Because he's the good one, and I'm the disappointment."

"That's not what I said," Tom interrupted. "I'm just asking a question."

"No, I didn't give him alcohol," Byron replied firmly, holding up his hands. "I didn't give him anything. I don't even know what he's talking about. He's clearly still drunk." He glared at Dylan, tilting his head pleadingly, and Dylan seemed to clam up.

The younger Klebold stared down at the table, his chest moving up and down as he took heavy breaths. "It wasn't Byron's vodka."

Sue and Tom exchanged a glance, knowing there was something between their two sons that was being kept from them. "I think it's time that both of you started to be more honest with us," Sue said, trying to collect her thoughts. "I had a feeling this wasn't an isolated incident on your part." She looked at Dylan, shaking her head. "I went through this with your brother, and I am not going through this all over again with you."

"What, are you going to kick me out, too?"

Sue stood there shocked at Dylan's words, and Tom stood up so abruptly that one of the cats flew out from under the table in distress.

"We were worried about you," Sue exhaled, trying to curb the intensity in the room. "We are still worried."

Dylan looked from his Dad to Byron, an unrecognizable expression of cynicism on his face. "Don't worry. You can't overdose on marijuana," he said, giving his brother a knowing look. "But you can on other things, right Byron? Plenty of other drugs out there to almost die from."

Tom and Sue stood in stunned silence, frantically trying to interpret the secrets behind his statement. Byron chewed on his lip, quietly fuming. "Okay, okay," he mumbled to himself as he stared at the floor, raising his eyebrows and nodding. "You know what, you are so screwed up for trying to hide your problems behind mine. You're so screwed up! You're proving how much help you actually need by dragging me down with you."

Dylan glared at him. "When did you start caring about what I need?"

Byron rolled his eyes, an incredulous smile on his face. "You're right, Dylan, I don't give a shit about you, clearly."

"Byron," Sue interrupted, shaking her head but her sons only seemed to get more heated.

"You don't give a shit about anything. Ever," Dylan growled.

Byron nodded. "Sure."

"Both of you, enough," Sue held up her hands, getting ignored again.

Dylan kept his stare fixed on his brother. "All those conferences with your teachers that mom and dad had to go to, that they made me go to, because you weren't going to school? When you were high every goddamn day because you didn't care about my life or how it was effected by your choices!"

Byron breathed out a cynical laugh, his hands clenching and un-clenching.

Dylan crossed his arms. "Are you even aware that some people would give everything in the world not to give a shit? To be ignorant like you? To not feel constantly?"

"God, this is so melodramatic," Byron shook his head. "Reality sucks, Dylan, okay? Wake up."

In a split second, Sue watched Dylan lunge at Byron, and then in the next instant Tom had hurried over to grab Dylan. The eldest Klebold fought to pull his sons apart. "Dad, let go of me! Please! You're hurting my arm!" Dylan frantically tried to move from Tom's grip, Byron's shirt sleeve still balled in his hand as Tom held his arms. "Dad, let go!"

Byron held up his hands. "Just let him go!" Byron urged his father while Sue stood there, mouth agape as she backed away.

"Stop it, all of you, enough!" She yelled, causing the family cats to peek out from where they were hiding behind the door. Dylan broke free, slamming against the table and rubbing his left bicep where Tom had grabbed him.

"Take a breath," Byron tried to ease his brother but Dylan was seething too much to listen.

"Don't tell me what to do."

Tom wiped his sweaty forehead. "Leave your brother alone. He's just trying to help."

"Since when is he the responsible one?" Dylan growled.

Tom crossed his arms as Sue closed her eyes tiredly. "Since a few hours ago when we found you intoxicated on a dark trail with no one knowing where you were!" Tom yelled, getting in his youngest son's face having finally lost it. "Why are you trying to minimize what you did?"

"Because I'm getting treated like a criminal for a little alcohol! Byron can get away with all kinds of stuff, but when I fuck up, it's the end of the world!"

Tom slammed his hands angrily against the table. "Byron has come a long way since—"

"He's a fucking addict!" Dylan exploded, pointing a finger sharply at his older brother.

The three Klebolds stood in absolute silence as Dylan caught his breath, the room spinning madly and the world stopping all at the same time.

Byron gathered his jacket, throwing it on in a hurry. "Fuck you, man, just... fuck you." He grumbled with narrowed eyes at his younger brother. He made his way to the front door without another word, slamming it behind him.

Sue watched him go, too shocked to move, looking as though she wanted to say something to him but stopped herself. With both his parents' gaze on the door, Dylan began to slink toward the stairs.

"You don't care," Dylan said in a more subdued tone. "You don't care at all. We're fucked up, and you don't even care."

Sue was still speechless, so Tom spoke, calmer than he'd been. "Dylan, stop, we are not done talking."

"I'm done." Dylan was already half-way up the stairs as Tom hurried toward him.

"Dylan, get back here at once! We are going to talk about this!"

"Tom, let him go," Sue said quietly before Dylan's bedroom door slammed.

Tom looked dumbly at the floor, clutching the back of a chair while he caught his breath. He turned to glance at his wife, who was breathing heavily and holding a hand to her heart. She covered her mouth with a dishrag, slinking onto the floor and sitting against the cabinets.

Tom sank into a chair, putting his head in his hands. "What just happened," he muttered.

"I don't know," Sue replied flatly with a half shrug.

"Why..."

"I don't know."

Tom stood up finally and walked to Sue, helping her up and steadying her. "Susie," he said, taking his wife into his arms and hugging her close. "Breathe," he kept repeating, trying to leave any sense of hysteria out of his voice. "Just breathe."

Sue let him hold her for a minute and then broke away as tears threatened to pour down her cheeks. She stared with frightened eyes at the place where her sons had stood. Her once perfect, sweet, gentle little boys were now gone. Little did either of them know, this was simply the calm before the storm.


	2. 𝙧𝙤𝙘𝙠𝙮 𝙢𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙝𝙞𝙜𝙝

April 1997

Another long Colorado winter survived, Sue thought as she prepared two sack lunches in the dim of the early morning light. She treasured this quiet time of the day; the birds chirping outside the large windows of the house and the sunlight pouring just enough over the rocks surrounding it.

Byron sat at the counter, quickly wolfing down two waffles while simultaneously trying to finish some last-minute math homework and tying his shoes. A graduating senior, Byron needed a little more prompting to complete the missing assignments he'd slacked off on. Naturally bright, he always managed to slip by with passing grades, despite his lack of effort to study. And now only weeks away from receiving his diploma, he knew he'd come too far to let one missing math worksheet sabotage his progress.

It was a waste, Sue privately thought. He and his brother had been blessed with many skills and intellectual talents, and Byron hadn't set the best example in honing those abilities for the better.

Sue dropped his bagged lunch in front of him and walked toward the bottom of the stairs, smoothing out her work clothes in the mirror near the banister. "Dylan, grab a waffle, you're running late!" She called up the stairs. She was only one floor from him, but her little sunshine boy was in fact miles away from her.

Dylan paced anxiously in his bedroom, both dirty and clean clothes strewn everywhere, and finally stood in front of his open closet for the eighth time that morning. He pushed past many of the shirts he had worn, Tommy Hilfiger, Union bay, Abercrombie, most of them hand-me-downs from Byron. He needed to go shopping, fast. He would be a junior next year, and all these options screamed loser sophomore. He didn't want to look like some goody-goody in polo who did whatever his parents wanted.

He slumped over to his dresser, clearing off mountains of jeans and socks until he could see himself in the mirror. An untucked worn green T-shirt, baggy jeans, and his baseball cap – worn forwards. He frowned at the reflection, seeing his untamable hair under the cap, trying to tuck back loose pieces. Sighing, he turned the cap, so it sat backwards, not used to how it looked but managing to tame his hair better with this position.

He stood there a little longer. Switching back and forth between wearing his glasses or not. Deciding whether to tuck his shirt in or leave it out. Every way looked stupid in his eyes, stupid and utterly hopeless.

The door opened without so much as a knock, and Sue stuck her head in before fully entering the room. "You used to be downstairs before Byron was even out of bed, sweetheart," she said, glancing at her son's outfit and furrowing her eyebrows. "Come on, you've worn that two days in a row. Can't you find a pair of jeans in here that aren't so wrinkled? We can go shopping this weekend for a few things."

Dylan's heart sank. The last thing he wanted was to be seen shopping with his mother at the mall. He'd rather die.

She walked over to his dresser in long strides as Dylan sank onto his bed, staring at the ground.

"Here, this is better," she said, resurrecting a pair of crisp dark blue jeans that Dylan couldn't remember wearing at any recent time. She sat on the bed next to him, noticing his despondent expression. "Did you get enough sleep last night?" She asked, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Wait a minute, aren't you getting your grade today for that paper in English class? I can't wait to read it..."

Dylan tuned her out as she began to ramble like she always did, constantly praising him for his academic accomplishments as if any of that mattered. What good is it to be smart if the kids at school thought he was some lame nerd?

How can she say all this and be so blind? Dylan thought as he begrudgingly took off his ragged jeans and pulled on the new pair, the cold and stiff material making him uncomfortable. He felt like a complete freak the way the pants made his legs look longer, making him appear tree-like. At least the baggy ones hid that a bit. Didn't she notice how awkward and gangly all these clothes made him look? He had hinted it to her in the past, and still she just couldn't see it. But Dylan knew how he looked, and it sickened him.

It was always, 'Aw, Dylan you're so handsome, you're so adorable,' etcetera, etcetera. 'You look so grown-up,' she would say. In turn, Dylan would shake his head and think, 'Yeah, I've grown up into a freakishly tall loser.'

The downward spiral had already begun in middle school, but it seemed to pick up momentum on that very morning, with more velocity than ever. Dylan felt especially awful that day knowing perfectly well he had turned in a half-assed assignment for the English paper and expected a D at best. All the other kids at school had been snickering behind his back in the halls and calling him things like 'stretch' until it totally took over his brain, leaving no ability for an analysis paper. Perhaps his mom couldn't see how much of a geek he was, but his school could.

Since Byron's car had recently been in the shop, Sue drove the two boys to school that morning on her way to work. Byron sat in the passenger seat, fumbling with the radio stations while Dylan stayed primarily quiet in the back, sleepy and spaced out as Sue talked about the fishing trip that weekend which Tom sometimes took the boys on.

Dylan did not particularly want to go this time, mainly because it wasn't as fun for him now as it was when he was younger. "Mom, he won't be sad if I don't go," Dylan argued softly from the back as he stared out the window.

"But he was looking forward to hanging out with you," Sue said, disappointment in her voice as she pulled up to one of the school's drop-off lanes. "You three are a team. I'm sure he'd be upset if you didn't go."

"But I don't like fishing that much anymore. It'll be boring," Dylan said, his tone whiney which made Sue stare back at him in the mirror as she parked. "Eric said I could spend the night at his house."

"Dylan," Sue sighed, preparing her motherly lecture so early in the day. "You already have plans with your father and your brother, and you are going to honor those plans. If you think you're going to be so bored, bring something to study."

"I can study at Eric's," Dylan tried to smile sweetly in the way that had always worked on his mom in the past, but she didn't seem to be falling for it this time. "We'll work on homework for real, I swear," he said as he undid his seat belt.

"You're going," she said, gesturing to Byron beside her. "Also, don't forget about our appointment tonight. We all have to be there."

Dylan rolled his eyes and opened the back door to slide out.

"I need a hug, come on," Sue smiled, trying to catch Dylan before he scampered out of the car. Dylan forced away the blush as he quickly leaned forward and awkwardly hugged her shoulder before hurrying out, with Byron giving his mom a more genuine and unashamed hug in the front seat.

"I love you, Dyl," she called out the window, making Dylan's shoulder's tense up in a painful cringe and he hurried up the front steps just as the warning bell rang.

When the dreaded English class came around, Dylan watched from a crack between his folded arms, head on his desk, as the teacher passed back the graded analysis papers. The grey-haired Mr. Durango stopped by Dylan's desk with a long, disapproving sigh and handed Dylan his paper face down. Dylan flipped it over cautiously and saw in red ink at the top of his paper a 'C.' He exchanged a look with Eric who sat toward the back of the classroom. Eric seemed satisfied with his grade, but he could see from Dylan's crestfallen expression that his friend had not been met with the same good fortune.

"I was a little disappointed with some of your papers," the teacher said to the class, though Dylan felt like it was directed only at him. Yes, in fact, it had to have been. Dylan peered around at his classmates, seeing their above average scores, and feeling contempt, regret, and complete incompetence. He had let his teacher down, and now it was all over. No other papers could redeem this failure, no matter how well he scored in the future. His reputation in the class, in his mind, had been tarnished.

Dylan thought of all this as he stuffed the bad grade into his backpack and spent the rest of the class doodling and glancing at the clock. He hated himself for being such a failure. Now his parents would hate him, too, he was sure. Or some irrational part of him was.

"You can still get an A in the class," Eric said as the two walked to the cafeteria. "It was one paper."

Dylan said nothing, knowing that Eric was probably right but there was always so much doubt. Byron appeared out of nowhere, a few of his friends with him. Dylan knew the group his brother was associated with and what they were known for, and it made him wary to be seen with them.

Ever since Byron quit varsity football, seemingly out of nowhere, he'd started distancing himself from his jock friends to hang around with the burnout, dead heads. Something about branching out, he'd told Dylan, but he didn't seem open to trying other groups any time soon.

Not that being one of those stoners isolated Byron from the rest of his old peers. He was one of those kids who had a good relationship with everyone, extroverted by nature and better at charming his way through any situation than his younger brother.

"What's up?" Dylan asked, gripping his backpack strap a little tighter.

"Can I borrow like five dollars?" Byron asked quietly. "I forgot my wallet, and I'm going off campus for lunch."

"Sucks for you," Dylan said, trying to walk away, but Byron persisted.

"Come on man, I swear I'll pay you back."

Dylan sighed, pulling out the money and handing it over. "You better pay me back. Today."

"Thanks, little bro. You're a saint, you really are," Byron said hurriedly, and then he and his friends headed off for the parking lot.

"You good?" Eric asked.

Dylan shrugged, too embarrassed to say that he had just financed a weed purchase for Byron yet again. Going off campus was like a code. Ever since Byron had been in trouble for pot in his room six months earlier, he'd started smoking it more during school hours.

"Do you want to come over after school today? I can help you revise your essay," Eric offered, and then cracked a smile. "Or not."

Dylan tried to laugh. "I'm never getting that grade back up," he demurred. "No reason to help."

"Dylan, you're the smartest guy I know," Eric shoved him a little, trying to get his friend to ease up on himself. "And my brother was all-honors."

Dylan smiled and then let it fade, remembering his family's plans for the night. "Today's not good for me. I'm sorry."

"Why? You literally haven't been over in days."

Dylan grit his teeth, hating his brother more than ever in that moment. "I have a family thing to go to."

"Can you get out of it?"

"Not unless I die."

Dylan resented going to family counseling. It would start out with all four of them and the counselor, an elderly woman who was a friend of a family friend and specialized in substance addiction and family dynamics. Then the counselor would talk to just Byron and their parents, while Dylan waited in the hall of the facility, doing homework.

He remembered the first time his parents mentioned the idea of going to these appointments. It was last year, soon after they had learned that Byron had been smoking weed for some time. And later that same week, Byron was caught with marijuana at the Catholic school he attended at the time and was promptly given detention for several days. A lenient punishment to say the least, according to the principal.

One morning, Dylan and Byron came downstairs and were greeted with their parents' somber faces at the kitchen table, as if they had been waiting for them.

"What's wrong?" Dylan asked, knowing whatever they were about to say could not be good.

"Dad?" Byron looked at Tom expectantly.

Tom turned to his wife hesitantly. "Sue, since this is your idea. . ."

Sue stood up from her chair. "Byron, you're still not off the hook, and now your school counselor thinks Dylan is sure to follow in your footsteps if precaution isn't taken."

"I have the problem, Mom, not Dylan," Byron said tiredly, stepping slightly in front of his brother. Dylan had never heard Byron refer to his recreational use as a 'problem', but he figured it was his way of smoothing out the waters. It was more effective than denial, Dylan guessed.

"I've never smoked in my life, I swear," Dylan said defensively, slipping a little too easily into the lie and ignoring the oh please glare that Byron subtly gave him.

"And I believe you," Sue nodded, all too ready to believe the lie.

Tom interrupted. "That's not quite the point, Dylan. All your mother and I want to do is keep you both safe."

"To move forward, I want all of us to start going to family counseling, and this isn't just for you, Byron," Sue said calmly. "I think we've all been a little distant from one another lately and could benefit from these sessions."

"We'll be seeing a therapist who specializes in teen substance abuse," Tom said, directing the statement toward Byron.

Byron flashed Dylan a discreet 'they can't be serious' look, which Dylan avoided.

"And I want you both to be open and honest with her," Sue added, looking directly at her younger son who was something of a closed book.

Dylan folded his arms. "Do you think we're hiding something?"

"Dylan, we don't think either of you are bad kids, but you have to admit this family has hit some rough patches in the last year," Tom said from the table.

"This is only temporary," Sue sighed, and it became clear in that moment that family counseling was her idea. "We're hoping to improve communication."

"Why can't we just 'improve communication' on our own? I don't think we need someone in a lab coat to tell us stuff we already know," Byron muttered, leaning against the banister.

"We would like it if the whole family goes," Tom replied, sounding a bit defeated, and Dylan could tell it was his father was somewhat reluctant himself.

Sue shrugged. "Try to keep an open mind."

Byron rolled his eyes. "This is so fu—"

"Byron," Tom cut him off, giving him a stern look.

Byron bit his lip, shaking his head.

"Okay, but why am I in trouble?" Dylan asked, his arms still crossed.

"What I know is that one of my sons is in trouble," Tom said without missing a beat. "And the other one follows by example. And it's my job to make sure neither of you does anything you're going to regret."

Dylan was quiet for a minute, looking from his dad to his mom. "That wasn't my question."

No one said anything for a few uncomfortable seconds until Byron broke the tension. "This all just seems so unnecessary. It's not that big of a deal, okay?"

"You call almost getting expelled 'not a big deal?'" Sue replied quickly.

"Ok, but I wasn't actually expelled," Byron protested.

Tom gave him a look that said he was tired of that excuse. "Maybe you would do better going to Columbine with Dylan."

"You want Dylan to spy on me?" Byron asked, raising an eyebrow. "He's a kid."

"A kid who makes good grades, doesn't cut class to smoke dope, and listens to us," Tom replied a bit blunter than he'd meant it.

Byron said nothing after that comment. He simply turned around and climbed back up the stairs, followed by Dylan a few seconds later, feeling like he'd somehow caused all this once again even if it wasn't his fault.

The truth was, Dylan had only shared a few joints with his brother, and he wasn't at all sure he'd even gotten high the first time. But by the second time, he'd sort of given up on the whole thing, not understanding why Byron liked to check out so much.

For most of his childhood, Dylan always looked to marijuana as a "just say no" kind of danger. After a D.A.R.E. Program in eighth grade, the idea of altering one's consciousness through the plant scared Dylan into thinking only crazy loser burnouts with no life puffed the magic dragon. And that 7th Heaven episode about the evils of pot that he had come across his mother watching didn't help either.

And on a hot August night in between Dylan's freshman and sophomore year, Dylan found Byron smoking a blunt out of his bedroom window when Dylan came in without knocking.

A few days later, he tried it.

They were hanging at home alone, watching a movie on the couch, Dylan finishing the last of his math homework under the dim glare of the television.

"Hey, Dyl," Byron said in an ominous voice, rummaging for something in his pocket.

"Yeah, what's up?" Turning toward his older brother, Dylan locked eyes with a small plastic baggie of marijuana. Not realizing what it was, Dylan shrugged and squinted his eyes in confusion. "Why do you have a bag of herbs?"

Byron gave the most dramatic eye roll Dylan had ever seen. "What? No, man, this is pot. Are you kidding me?"

Embarrassment flushed Dylan's cheeks red as he tried to pretend like he knew what it was the whole time. He gave an awkward laugh. "Oh, yeah, obviously."

"Yeah," Byron replied, giving his brother a sideways look. "Anyway. You wanna?"

Dylan shrugged. "No, I'm good. But you can, I mean, I'm not stopping you. I have some friends who do it, and they do it like all the time, so no judgement, go for it, I don't even care, it's whatever," he fumbled, trying not to come off as a total dweeb.

Byron shook his head. "You're the worst liar ever."

Dylan looked at Rocky stretched across the ottoman, knowing Byron was right.

"Look, it's cool, man," Byron said reassuringly. "We'll be safe in my room. Nothing crazy's going to happen. I just want you to try it, and if you don't like it after one hit, then that's cool too."

"This is the exact definition of peer pressure, you realize that, right?" Dylan muttered, following his brother upstairs. "Where do you even hide that?"

"Under my mattress," Byron said, and then gave Dylan a stern look. "For now. I'm definitely moving it though after this."

"Why?"

"Because you might end up liking it and come looking for my stash. Can't be having that."

He slid open the window in his room, rolled a joint, and lit it, all in impressive timing. The strong-smelling smoke spilled out the window and into the foothills, forming a grey cloud as it traveled outside.

Byron brought the joint back inside. "Take a hit."

Dylan had never tried marijuana before, and he felt like somehow their parents would know and burst open the door any minute. But seeing Byron take a few hits, it didn't look all that scary. And Dylan didn't want to seem lame.

"Sure." He sat next to Byron and took the joint. Dylan's hand shook a little as nerves creeped their way up. Not wanting to look stupid, he put the joint to his lips and took a small hit, like he was trying to get a general taste.

But it didn't taste good. It tasted like a mixture of paper and burnt grass. He began coughing hysterically, handing the joint back to Byron who quickly took the rest of his brother's hit.

"Dude," Byron said, shaking his head. "This really is your first time, huh?"

Dylan gasped for breath and shrugged, looking for water and finding a half-gone screwdriver on Byron's desk that had been sitting there overnight. Dylan grabbed it, downing the contents quickly.

"Oh, no, Dylan, maybe don't drink that, okay, or drink all of it, Jesus," Byron said slowly, watching his little brother chug the alcohol and juice and then cringe from the taste. "Oh buddy...that wasn't the move, man."

"What the fuck? Why does it taste like Vodka?" Dylan managed to ask through his gagging and wheezing, shaking his head as he fought for air. Finally, he could feel oxygen going into his lungs.

"Well, it's a screwdriver. It has Vodka in it," Byron said, confused as to why Dylan was panicking so much.

"Fuck, it's fucking strong," Dylan groaned, feeling high already from the air deprivation.

"How the hell are we related?" Byron mused quietly.

A loud creak from outside the room made Dylan flinch. Then he heard the creaking again. "Did you hear that?" He asked in a hoarse voice.

Byron took another hit and nodded, and Dylan noticed Rocky slinking into the room through the creaky door. The older Klebold smirked. "Someone's paranoid. Who knows, maybe Rocky will tell Mom and Dad you're a sinner," he laughed, watching Dylan relax as he sat on the floor to pet the cat.

A half hour later, the Klebold brothers were lying on the floor of Byron's room, staring up at the ceiling, Zeppelin's "Kashmir" blasting through the stereo. Dylan absently reached back for Byron to pass him the joint, who obliged after a second. Inhaling with a bit more ease, Dylan ran his fingers along the fuzzy carpet.

"This feels so weird," Dylan said quietly, the ceiling spinning a little, his chest rising and falling with each breath. "Do you feel weird?"

Byron closed his eyes as he laughed a little.

"Did I smoke too much?" Dylan asked nervously, which only made his brother laugh harder. "I'm not going to overdose, right?"

"Relax, Dylan. It's cool," Byron said in a faraway voice, opening his eyes.

"Are we going to die?" Dylan asked, his voice rising.

"Shit, man," Byron replied, closing his eyes and acting like he was really considering the question. "I don't know. Maybe."

Dylan ran a hand through his hair anxiously and then frowned. "My hair is really soft right now. Like...it feels like a cloud. I think it might all fall out, even though it's too soon for that, but it just feels so light."

Byron's laughing grew louder, heightening Dylan's panic. "Byron, there's something happening to my eyes," Dylan said urgently, his blue eyes darting about. "My eyelids won't close, and I think I forgot how to close them and now my eyes will always be open forever."

Rocky crawled onto Dylan's stomach and nestled against his shirt, making Dylan go completely still and his heart to speed up in worry. "Byron! Byron! Please look! Byron, help me!"

Byron kept laughing, slowly looking over at Dylan's expression of anxiousness. "What? What is it?"

Dylan was staring at Rocky as the cat purred on his chest, oblivious to the boy's freak out. "Rocky is going to tell Mom, I know he's going to tell Mom," he cried as Byron fell into another fit of hysterical laughter. Dylan spoke directly to his cat. "No, please don't tell Mom. Byron, he knows. We're fucked, we're so fucked," he said, trying to push Rocky off him and toward his brother. 

"Okay, this is highest I've ever seen anyone get for their first time," Byron managed to say amidst the laughter. "How are you this fucked up?"

The cat simply gave a disappointed meow and sauntered out of the bedroom, on his way to tell Mrs. Klebold everything as soon as she got home. As far as Dylan was concerned anyway.


End file.
